Melina Marchetta - Finnikin of the Rock

"Evanjalin!"

He caught sight of a flicker of her robe as she disappeared around a bend. He had smelled her fear when they arrived, had sensed the memory of her family's death in Sarnak in every tremble of her body.

The light was disappearing fast. He called out her name as he ran after her, but there was desperation in her movements as she disappeared again and again. Finally she was brought to a stop by a dead end. But there was someone in the shadows, and before Finnikin could reach her, she was flung to the ground. Her assailant looked no more than fourteen or fifteen. Finnikin pulled Trevanion's sword from its scabbard in an attempt to scare the boy rather than wound him.

Suddenly he felt the cold sharp tip of steel pressed against his neck. He felt little fear. From the moment he was born, Trevanion had taught him to fight, a skill Sir Topher made sure he continued to develop as they traveled from kingdom to kingdom. But when he turned, he could see four of them. Sensing that Evanjalin was no threat, the thieves had made Finnikin their target.

"Drop it!"

Not likely, he thought. He looked to where Evanjalin lay. When she raised herself onto her hands and knees, the youth shoved her and she fell again, whimpering. The young thief hammered her across the temple while holding her to the ground. Then he straddled her and began to search through the folds of her clothing, as if looking for something else of worth. This was why Sir Topher preferred they travel alone. No one to fear for. No one to protect. The girl would be their weak point until they left her in Sorel.

"Drop it!" The order came again.

Without taking his eyes off the novice, Finnikin reluctantly placed his sword on the ground and kicked it across the cobblestones. It stopped a few meters short of the girl's feet, and he felt impotent rage as he watched the boy continue to fumble under her shift.

"Pockets first!"

"We have nothing...."

The sword at his neck moved to his cheek. He felt it pierce his skin, and a trickle of blood make its way down his face. But he tried to keep his eyes on what was taking place with Evanjalin and saw the boy leap up and disappear into the night.

Evanjalin screamed the moment she saw his bloody face. Finnikin knew the odds were against them. Four men, all armed; his sword out of reach at the feet of a hysterical girl; and three knives tucked securely away. One on his sleeve, one in his boot, the other on his back.

"Tell the girl to stop the screaming!"

Finnikin willed her to stop. He needed to think. Quickly. Sword at her feet. Three knives on his person. Four men with weapons of their own.

"Stop her screaming, boy, or it's her throat first."

"Evanjalin!" he called out. "Stop!"

But the novice was too far gone, and her screams turned into piercing wails.

Think, Finnikin, think. Knife to the throat of the one closest to him. Other knife hurled at the man who was now standing guard at the entrance of the alleyway. Grab the sword of the one closest to him and plunge it into the third man, but that left one more and he knew that he would be dead before the second knife left his hands.

His head rang with her screams. No words, just sounds. Earsplitting.

"Evanjalin!" he called out again. And then he saw the man on watch advancing toward her.

"No!" he yelled, trying to push past the three men surrounding him. "She's simple. She doesn't understand."

He succeeded in shaking free, but he knew it would not be for long. And yet that was all it took. One moment the novice was screaming, and in the next, the moon bathed her face with light and he caught a look in her eye that spoke little of fear and more of rage. Before he knew it, Finnikin's sword was kicked toward him as she grabbed the man's sword at his hip and plunged it into his thigh.

Finnikin was stunned, but the sight of Evanjalin fighting one of the thieves was all he needed to act. One man down. Then two. The daggers silent and deadly accurate. The third he fought with Trevanion's sword, a weapon too quick for a bunch of useless thieves. From the sound made by the singing swords behind him, it was clear that Evanjalin knew how to handle a weapon. Still, when Finnikin's third man went down, he swung around to deal with her assailant, only to find himself face-to-face with her. Eyes blazing, sword held upright in both hands. Steady. Waiting to swing. At her feet the man was writhing in agony from a second wound to his ear. She dropped the sword, and they ran in the only direction open to them.

They found their way out of the maze of alleyways and back toward the main road leading out of the town, only to realize that one of the assailants, with Finnikin's dagger still embedded in his body, had managed to pursue them. The girl shoved Finnikin toward a horse tied to a nearby post. She grabbed Trevanion's sword out of the scabbard at his side and, without hesitating, held it by the blade and swung its ruby-encrusted handle between the legs of their pursuer. He heard a crack and knew it wasn't the handle that had shattered. The howl of agony was enough to wake the dead.

Finnikin mounted the horse. The girl handed him Trevanion's sword, then planted one of her feet on the assailant's chest for balance and yanked out Finnikin's dagger. She held out her arm to Finnikin, and he swung her up until she was seated behind him, clasping his waist, with the dagger in one hand. He looked down at her hands, strong and callused and bloody, as they clung to him. He felt her face against his back, heard her ragged breath close to his ear. A sudden desire to hear her voice flashed through him.

Sir Topher stared at them in shock. Finnikin didn't know whether it was because of the presence of the horse or the half-wild state of the novice. He helped them both dismount, but his eyes were on the girl.

"She was robbed," Finnikin muttered, beckoning him away. "But she knows how to use a sword."

"I warned you to keep her away from harm, Finnikin."

"Sir Topher," Finnikin said, keeping his voice controlled, "she handled a sword and used her wits. I tell you, she's no simpleton. I don't trust her."

"Handled a sword better than you?"

"Obviously not, but she still managed to maim two men, last count. One who, in all probability, will not be fathering anyone's child for quite a while."

They both looked over to where Evanjalin stood, her nose pressed against the horse. Finnikin leaned forward to whisper. "All that silence. It's not right."

"That would be the vow, Finnikin. The novices take it very seriously."

"I saw the novices of Lagrami often as a child. My cousin was one of them. They sang; they weaved; they planted roses. They did not fight like a feral trainee in the King's Guard. They did not know the amount of damage the handle of a sword swung between a man's legs could do."

"Times have changed, and even novices have had to learn to protect themselves," Sir Topher said. "Why can't you just be happy that she used initiative?"

Finnikin was silent. He remembered how she had pushed him toward the horse while she took Trevanion's sword to fight. He realized the truth. He was not irritated that the girl had shown initiative; it was that she had taken charge.

When they woke the next morning, she was gone.

"She left the horse and her pack, which means she plans to return," Sir Topher said, agitation in his voice. "You'll have to fetch her, Finnikin. Now."

"She's gone back for the thief," Finnikin said, shaking his head in disbelief. "He took her ring, no doubt, and she's gone back for it."

One of Sir Topher's rules was to never indulge in sentimentality, never return for what was left behind. Finnikin's eyes strayed toward the road that would lead them to Charyn. From there, with the girl, they would have traveled south to Sorel. On their own, Finnikin knew they would spend time in Osteria, where peace reigned. It was where the Lumateran ambassador now lived, working as the minister for Osterian trade.